


The Cult of the Secret Nine

by Katy133



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley are equally incompetent, Aziraphale and Crowley care about Warlock, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Comedy, Cults, Demon Deals, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrations, In the narration style of the book, Kid Fic, M/M, Once again I put way too much research into a fic, RadioDrama!Crowley cameo, Set in 2014, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), fun with footnotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katy133/pseuds/Katy133
Summary: Set five years before Armageddon, Crowley and Aziraphale are raising a five-year-old named Warlock. Unfortunately, a misunderstanding with a local cult has thrown a spanner into the works. How does one solve a mystery whilst looking after the Antichrist?Well,onedoesn't. You do it withtwo.





	1. The Parcel

_(June 27th. Morning.)_

"Remember to follow the recipe to the letter, young Warlock. Like rules, you should always follow them."

Warlock looked up at the gardener, who was standing outside with a shovel. Through the kitchen window, he pointed the five-year-old to a measuring cup. The child and his nanny were making a cake, and Warlock was enjoying it.

"Oh, no, no, Warlock," said the nanny. "Rules are made to be broken. Throw in whatever _springs_ to mind."

Warlock's nanny handed the child a bag of sweets and Warlock proceeded to throw a fistful of them into the batter.

The nanny's name was Ms. Ashtoreth Crowley. The gardener's name was Brother Francis.

"Besides," said Nanny Ashtoreth. "Shouldn't the gardener be busy _gardening?_ "

The gardener frowned and ignored her.

The cake would end up being a strange sight. Once it was pulled out of the oven, it appeared quite normal and even edible... on one side. The other half of it looked like it had the texture of cement was looked like it was not fit for human consumption.

Warlock ate the nice part, and tried to feed the rest of it to the Secret Service men. Warlock's nanny smiled at this.

At the end of the day, both the nanny and the gardener left the grounds of the Dowling estate. Not together though. Never together. They didn't _know_ each other very well, after all.

As they got further and further from the estate, they appeared less and less like a nanny and a gardener and more and more like two other people entirely.

***

Aziraphale and Crowley stood next to each other in front of a piece of art. They were in the British Museum, looking at a sculpture of an angel entwined with a giant snake.[1]

It was another of their covert meetings. Ever since they had formed the Arrangement, they agreed to meet with each other to exchange notes. That way, neither of them would be in the dark.

Besides, if they were taking each other to museums and concerts, and restaurants, they were stopping each other from doing good and evil, respectively, and therefore doing their job. Heaven and Hell really had nothing to complain about.

"I'm going to a pub later on." said Crowley. "In Highgate. The Spaniards Inn, it's called."

"Wasn't Dick Turpin said to be a regular there?"

"Not anymore. I'm supposed to go there to meet with another demon and get further instructions from Down Below. Dunno about what though."

"I heard they have wonderful cream cakes." said Aziraphale. "The inn, I mean. Not Down There."

Crowley smiled. "Cream cakes. I'll keep that in mind."

Nanny Crowley had gotten the message from Hell while she and Warlock were sitting together on the sofa, in front of the television, which was playing an episode of _Jackanory._ The interruption rather miffed her. Luckily, Warlock was asleep during the transmission.

***

Crowley walked down the steps of the British Museum. As he left, he noticed the announcement that the dinosaur exhibition was being re-released, complete with animatronic _Velociraptors._ He smiled knowingly at this. It was the knowing smile of someone who was in on an old joke.

He got into the Bentley. As he turned the key, Freddie Mercury sang something about dining at the Ritz at nine precisely.[2]

_"Ooh, love... Ooh, loverboy..."_

As the lyrics played, Crowley felt something tugging at his chest. He ignored it, and drove off.

***

Crowley nursed a glass of cider and a slice of vanilla cream cake. He sat in front of the bar, near the end. A place where he could be spotted easily, but far enough from the bartender's ears.

He disliked meeting up with other demons. They tended to somehow put him in a foul mood, one way or another. Either they'd make some snide remark about his clothes, or they'd ask what a car was, or they'd mispronounce his name. He just didn't enjoy it.

As he waited, a monk sat down beside him.

Or rather, he was dressed like a monk. Only it was dark red.

As Crowley had thoughts along the lines of, _Wow, the other demons really need to get out more,_ the figure in red spoke.

"Are you an agent of the Dark Order?" he said it quietly, as if he was just as embarrassed about the phrase as Crowley.

Crowley looked him over. What he saw was a young man who, aside from his dated clothes, looked rather nondescript. His expression was what one would have described as _meek._ Someone who'd apologise to you if you bumped into their shoulder. The sort of person who, if you didn't know them, would get lost in a crowd.

"Dark Order? Oh, yes. I was supposed to meet with you, wasn't I? What do you have for me?" said Crowley.[3]

"This," said the man in robes. He pulled something out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Crowley. "Someone else will come by to collect it."

It was a brown-paper-wrapped parcel, tied together with string. It was slightly smaller than a shoebox.

Crowley took it and held it in the crook of his arm. "Right. I'll be off then. That's it, is it?"

"Yes."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing."

There was a long pause.

"Right then," said Crowley, quickly getting up. "I'll take this to the Dowling's then. Say hi to the others for me. _Ciao_."

He left the Spaniards Inn and got in his car, tossing the parcel onto the passenger's seat.

Crowley didn't open the package. Which was perhaps for the best, because the package contained something quite dreadful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Footnote: The piece was titled _Il Rammarico del Paradiso_ (" _Heaven's Regret_ ") by the artist "Everard" sometime in the Renaissance. Not much was known about the artist nor the work, but the sculpture had been commissioned by a rich nobleman, and the angel was modelled after a man who looked nothing like Aziraphale, and everything like Apollo of the Greeks. Everard was said to have been inspired by wandering the Phlegraean Fields of Naples, Italy and seeing a light-haired man sitting calmly next to a serpent, apparently in a deep conversation with the creature. Contemporary art critics described the piece as being reminiscent of the Rod of Asclepius and the Staff of Hermes. [ return to text ]
> 
> 2 Footnote: All CDs left in the Bentley transmuted into albums by Queen. This was because Crowley _expected_ it. After all, it was the only explanation as to why so many times, he'd open the compartment of CDs only to find cases upon cases of _The Best of Queen._ [ return to text ]
> 
> 3 Footnote: The Dark Council and the Dark Order are different entities entirely, it turned out. This lead to something of a misunderstanding between Crowley and the person he was talking to. [ return to text ]


	2. The Bell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who commented on chapter one. Your comments are fuelling my writing for this fic. I'm so glad people are already interested!

_(June 28th. Morning.)_

In a small, cosy café, Crowley and Aziraphale sat next to each other. It was very early in the morning, as they'd have to head off to the Dowling's residence later in the day. They were having pancakes.

Crowley poured some more cream over his plate as he explained what had happened yesterday night.

"And then he just handed me a package. Said someone would come to collect it." He took another bite of his pancakes and continued, mouth still stuffed with food. "Can you _believe_ that? Handing the parcel to me to hand over to someone else, to hand over to the right person. Why not just _give_ it to the right person right out of the gate?"

Aziraphale sipped some more coffee. He nodded sympathetically. "Did you open the package to see what was in it?"

Crowley swallowed. "No. Wasn't supposed to."

"My dear boy. You're a demon. You can take a peek at the very least. No real harm in that."

"Ngh. Fine. I'll take a quick look, then re-wrap it. They'll never know." He took another bite. "Probably nothing interesting though. Maybe a poison rattle for Warlock to use on his enemies or something."

"Isn't he a bit old for rattles?"

"The other demons are rather... behind the times. There's no telling with them."

Aziraphale stole a strawberry from Crowley's plate. Crowley let him.

***

The demon left the café and opened the driver's side of the Bentley. He had said his goodbyes to Aziraphale. Elvis Presley was playing, accompanied by a beautiful string guitar.[4]

_"Wise men say... only fools rush in..."_

Crowley turned from the A40 to the M25. That was a mistake.

He immediately got stuck in a traffic jam.

Crowley was rather proud of being responsible for the M25. But sometimes it was an absolute bugger to be hoisted by your own flagpole. Or in this case, trapped by your own motorway.

_"Take my hand... Take my whole life too..."_

He waited for the cars in front of him to start moving. He leaned his arms on the steering wheel, realising it would take a while. His eyes glazed over. He'd much rather being doing something else. He'd much rather be with...

_"I can't help... falling in love with you..."_

_Aziraphale..._

Crowley's eyes flashed behind his shades. Something came into fruition. A realisation.

Crowley was having a Moment.

He leaned forward to rest his head on the steering wheel. "Oh, _no..._ "

Ever since the Garden of Eden. Ever since he slithered to the Eastern Gate...

He was in love with an angel. And not just any angel. A Principality.[5]

"I bet the demons would _love_ that..." thought Crowley aloud. He felt a shiver at the thought of them finding out.

And yet...

The warmth that bloomed in his chest... The image of Aziraphale smiling at him... It felt...

But there was no _time_ for that. He needed to help Aziraphale stop the End of the World As They Knew It. They had a kid to raise. And at that moment, he needed to find out just what was in that brown-paper-wrapped parcel. Some time today, at any rate.

The traffic cleared. He filed away this new revelation in his mind, and drove on.

***

Nanny Ashtoreth arrived at the Dowling's. She noticed Brother Francis gardening in the front lawn as she entered the house. She placed the wrapped parcel down on the sofa, without much respect for it. She decided she'd open it later.

After a day of showing Warlock the wonders of human experience (such as how many tubes of plastic could one use to build one Marble Run[6]), evening fell. The gardener had long since left. There wasn't a lot a gardener could properly do once the sun went down.

Warlock lay in bed as his nanny read to him. It was a book of obscure fairytales, and she was reading the tale of _The Serpent and the Princess._

"The serpent went to a witch and begged her for help," read Crowley. "He needed to find a way of becoming human. She gave him a pair of magic gloves that, if he wore them, would turn him into a human for seven days."

Crowley hadn't read the story before, so she was having trouble answering some of the Warlock's questions.

"Nanny, how can he put on the gwoves if he's a swerpent?"

"Because... I think he slides his tail in one and... his head in the other?"

"Okay." Warlock adjusted his head on the oversized pillow.

Crowley continued. "The serpent transformed into a handsome prince and walked with her for seven days. She recognised him as the serpent that refused to bite her, and was ecstatic to see him again."

"What's ess-static?"

"Ecstatic. To be very happy."

"Oh."

The nanny turned the page. "They danced and ate and talked together. But alas, the spell wore off. He became a serpent again and slithered away to his cave in shame."

Warlock suddenly became very interested. He sat bolt upright. Crowley enjoyed it when she was able to get the five-year-old invested in a story, even if reading wasn't exactly something she normally did for pleasure.

"The serpent was in despair. He went back to the witch as begged her for another pair of gloves. She had none."

Warlock clutched at the duvet.

"She _did_ however have a magic ring. 'This ring will turn you into a human permanently. You will never be able to change back. Are you sure you wish to become human?' 'Yes,' said the serpent. 'More than anything.'" Crowley breathed out the words with something that resonated.

Crowley turned the page and flipped the book over to show Warlock an illustration of a very sad-looking snake. "The serpent left the caves and put the ring on, but nothing happened."

"The witch lied!" said Warlock.

"As he despaired, he saw the Princess nearby. She was crying into her handkerchief. Unable to ignore her, he slithered to her to ask what was wrong. She stopped upon seeing him and smiled. 'I thought I lost you,' she told the serpent. She embraced his coils in her arms and kissed him. And with true love's kiss, he became a prince again."

Crowley was surprised to realise what the story was about: Forbidden love. She ought to have realised, it being a fairytale after all.

"And they lived happily ever after."

Closing the book, Nanny Ashtoreth tucked in Warlock. She was about to turn off the dinosaur lamp, but the boy sat upright again.

"Nanny," he said. "Why did he do that? They were so different in the beginning. He could have stayed a snake if he didn't fall in love with the pwrincess. Why did he keep twrying?"

Crowley knew what she was supposed to answer. What Hell would have wanted. That love was an unnecessary thing to have. That the serpent made a mistake. But she answered another way.

"Because he loved her _so much,_ he wanted to keep trying to be human so they could do human things together. Dancing. Talking. They both loved those things."

Warlock pouted. "I bet she would still like him as a snake. Snakes are the best."

She smiled. "I'm glad you think so."

Crowley turned off the light and walked out. Trying not to think about serpents and princesses and Principalities.

***

Crowley adjusted his snakeskin scarf as he sat in one of the golden chairs in his flat.

It was the middle of the night, but he decided to look up a list of plot summaries for Warlock's fairytale book anthology on his mobile phone. He didn't want any more surprises from blind readthroughs and wanted to know exactly what he was getting into with each story.

It was all very well for a book to give you advice on what serpents should do next. But what if a princess--or a prince for that matter--tells you that _you go too fast for them?_

He was just reading the synopsis of _The Wicked Prince_ when his phone rang. He brightened at the thought of Aziraphale calling him, but sagged when he saw the caller's tag:

HELL.

For the first time ever, Hell had actually decided to contact Crowley in a _normal_ way. By phone.[7]

He ignored it.

In the background of the adjoining room, Crowley's flat screen television was turned on, playing to no one in particular. Crowley had gotten into the habit of watching animated children's programs. Even when Warlock wasn't in the room.

The voice of Arthur Lowe spoke in a calm voice as a bandage-covered blue blob walked down the screen.

"This is the story of Mr. Bump. The trouble with Mr. Bump was that Mr. Bump kept having _little accidents._ For instance, if he was was walking down the street, and there was a lamppost nearby--" _CROWLEY. WHAT THE HEAVEN IS GOING ON?_

Crowley sighed, got up, and walked into the room with the television.

"What's up?"

_YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO GIVE USHER A REPORT OF ANYTHING SUSPICIOUS. HE SAYS YOU NEVER ARRIVED._

"What? I--"

Crowley stopped. Usher. The man he spoke to definitely wasn't Usher. Usher was a demon who was particularly bad at taking on a human form. He could never quite get the faces right.

Whoever Crowley met. Whoever gave him the package, was _not_ a messenger of Hell.

Crowley realised that something had gone horribly wrong.

"Uh, sorry! Must have slipped my mind! Forgot to arrive. You know how it is! Raising the Antichrist and all that," said Crowley, deciding that honesty would not have been the best policy in this situation.

_MAKE SURE IT DOES NOT HAPPEN AGAIN. HOW GOES YOUR TRAINING WITH OUR MASTER'S SON?_

"Ah. Great! He's growing up so fast! I'm teaching him how to do evil. Things are all going according to plan."

_AND HOW GOES YOUR PURSUIT IN DESTROYING THE PRINCIPALITY, AZIRAPHALE?_

"Oh! Fine! Haven't destroyed him yet. Uh, still working on it. But, you know, he's a powerful enemy."

The screen flickered back to normal, leaving Crowley on his own again.

He looked over at the brown-paper-wrapped parcel on the table. He had brought it home with him and still hadn't opened it.

He slowly pulled the string, holding the package like it would explode if he dropped it. He removed the paper without ripping it, in case he'd need to re-wrap the box later.

He opened the lid.

Inside the box was a was a silver blade. The blade was sharp and short, about the same length as the handle. While the blade was simple, the handle was intricate. It was golden, with detailed patterns all along it, ending with sculpture of a snake's head at the top. It looked very old.

It was a phurba.

Crowley's blood turned to ice.[8]

***

Crowley drove to Soho like Hell on wheels. As he parked in front of the bookshop, he snapped his fingers, silencing Queen's _Don't Stop Me Now_.

The demon knocked on the door, ignoring the closed sign pressed to the window.

Aziraphale opened the door. He was bristling.

"Crowley? What on earth are you doing?! We aren't meant to meet until tomorrow. What if you were _seen?_ What about the Arrangement? You didn't phone or--"

But then he saw how agitated Crowley looked and stopped.

"Come in." He opened the door wider and gestured towards the warm, inviting interior of the shop. Crowley entered, carrying something under his arm. Aziraphale surveyed the street, looking for anyone who may have seen them. Satisfied that no one had, the angel closed the door.

"What's wrong? Something has happened."

" _This_ has happened."

Crowley showed the contents of the package to Aziraphale, holding it up.

"Don't let that blade touch your skin!" said Aziraphale. "That's a phurba. It can pin a demon to the spot."

"I know," said Crowley. He waved the blade lightly back and forth, almost playfully.

"This one is different. This one could discorporate you."

Crowley froze.

Aziraphale held his hand out. "Let _me_ hold it."

With no distrust, Crowley handed it over.

Aziraphale inspected it closely. "This phurba was used for exorcising rituals and for... hunting demons. A phurba's blade can pin a demon to the spot. Once that's done, only the person who... shanked the demon can free them. This one..." He hovered his hand over the blade. " _This_ one is powerful enough to have paralysed you completely. If you cut yourself with it, then the only person who could free you would have been _you_. By removing the blade. Which you would not have been able to do if you were paralysed."

"Quite the paradox," said Crowley, his mouth going dry.

Aziraphale looked disgusted at the item. "You would have been forced to pull your essence out of your body, and discorporate."

"Hell's teeth..."

"Quite."

"Can you get rid of it for me, angel?"

"Uh, yes. I'll need to find a place when it can't be used." Aziraphale snapped his fingers and produced an empty eyeglasses case. It had a tartan pattern on it. He placed the phurba inside it, and placed it safely in his pocket.

Angels and demons couldn't just snap things out of existence. When things disappeared, they always _went_ somewhere.

"Where did you _find_ such a thing?" asked Aziraphale.

"Well, that's the thing..."

***

The Cult of the Secret Nine was filled with people who were not being compensated for their work as much as they should have been, but stayed because they wanted to be part of something that was bigger than themselves.

Besides. They had robes.

What they didn't have were dungeons or torches or mysterious secret passageways. Any torches they had were the battery-powered kind.

Their headquarters didn't have brick walls. Unless you counted the bricks on the outside. The walls on the inside were beige plaster.

If you asked any member what they were working towards, they would have told you, "Why, to serve our cult leader so that he can finally obtain the power to mend the world." If you asked them _how_ he was going to get that power, or through _what_ means, they wouldn't have known which way to look. Their orders were separated and given little to no context. _Find out where_ this _item is. Deliver_ that _message. There you go._ It was a very compartmentalised operation.

You might have been tempted to ask what exactly the "Secret Nine" in their namesake was referring to. Each member would have given you an answer. The only problem was that each answer would have been different.

Cultist George walked down the beige hallway to a set of doors leading to the most important room of the place. He had just finished delivering a shoebox-sized parcel to someone at The Spaniards Inn.

When Cultist George was not cult-ing, he was a quantity surveyor. His old hobby was writing articles on tennis, in the hopes that they'd get published. But they never did.

The sound speakers that were made to give announcements played music instead. It was Cultist Rosaline's idea, and she was the one in charge of it. It was currently playing Hozier.

_"I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door..."_

The Cult of the Secret Nine mainly consisted of young people born around the eighties and nineties, with their leader being the eldest. The pros to this was that your organisation included a lot of members who were familiar with new technology.

The _con_ with it of course, was that your organisation was susceptible to the Folly of Youth.

***

Cultist George walked into the lair of their leader. It was only area of the building with decor that implied a _cult-ish_ atmosphere in any big way.

The room was big, and spacious, and _darker_ for one thing. The loud music from from the speakers didn't quite reach the room, like the lair was on another plane of existence. But that wasn't the case. The room wasn't magic. The person in charge had no supernatural powers.

That was the problem.

On a slightly elevated platform sat an ebony throne. On the throne sat the cult's leader, wearing a brighter version of the scarlet robes. Surrounded by him were assorted object of interest.

All were occult relics. Some looked magical. Most of them were utter rubbish. But a few of them were _not rubbish_.

The leader had a first, last, _and_ middle name, but he didn't give it to the other cultists. So we'll call him Moon. It was the name he was willing to give out.

Cultist George stood in front of his leader, looking up at the throne, his hands clasped together.

"I have done as you asked and delivered the box."

"Excellent." Moon spoke with an even, intense voice that sounded like an intelligent person who knew what he was doing. And it was a voice that matched the owner. To a degree. Everyone had blind spots. "We can now proceed with the next phase. Would you like to watch?"

"Yes, please!" said Cultist George, eager to be a part of something.

Moon gave a pleased smile. He gestured to another cultist, who produced a rotary telephone that lived on a crimson pillow. It had a very long chord, so it could be carried around. Moon _could_ have used a mobile phone, but it seemed less dramatic to him. He liked old things. And he liked to collect.

He dialled each number with the _clack_ of the finger wheel.

He called the Occult Expert. "Hello... Yes, it's me. Have you verified _the item?_ I see... I see... I'll tell you once I find out."

Moon hung up. He slowly turned to Cultist George like he was about to murder him, but wasn't quite sure which body part to start off with.

He spoke low. "Apparently, our specialist did not receive the parcel I wanted examined. I'll have to call your fellow operative and ask her was has happened."

Moon lifted up the receiver. He was just about to call the second cultist, but then...

" _'Her?'_ The person I met with was a man," said Cultist George.

"What?"

It was a flat _what_. But not a tranquil one. More of a chilled anger. Which Cultist George thought was the worst kind.

His leader was cross. Very, very cross.

In fact, _cross_ really didn't even begin to describe it.

The realisation that he had made a Big--but hopefully not Fatal-- mistake slowly crept over Cultist George.

Moon asked for a description of the man. Cultist George gave one.[9]

Then Cultist George remembered something. "Before he left, he said he'd take it to the 'Dowling's.' Maybe that could help us?"

Moon considered this. He looked at an object siting in the corner of his lair. It was metallic and old. Ancient. It looked like a bowl or an inverted church bell, supported by metal legs from below. It required four people to carry it because of its size and weight.

It would be risky. And they would not be able to use it a second time...

Moon smiled at the standing bell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 Footnote: Elvis, whom, unbeknownst to anyone, was still very much alive, fulfilling his dream job of flipping burgers, in a fast food place somewhere in America. [ return to text ]
> 
> 5 Footnote: Although Aziraphale had to answer to an Archangel, and despite Aziraphale's less than stellar standing with his co-workers, Principalities were still technically of a powerful rank. In human terms, they were considered the equivalent of a lieutenant. Should the Final War ever happen, Aziraphale would be in charge of an entire platoon of angels.
> 
> After all, the word _Principality_ was the inspiration behind the word _prince_.
> 
> In comparison, despite the positive favours and commendations over the years, Crowley wasn't even considered the equivalent of a camp counsellor. [ return to text ]
> 
> 6 Footnote: The answer was: Enough to make a Secret Service man trip up on the carpet. [ return to text ]
> 
> 7 Footnote: Hell did not do it on purpose of course. They would just contact Crowley through whatever device he was using at the time. [ return to text ]
> 
> 8 Footnote: A phurba. A ritual implement used for exorcism and demon-hunting. Pronounced "fur-bah." Or at least, it was pronounced that way by Johnny Powell, a young scholar formerly studying at Fordham University, New York. Despite his nervous temperament, he showed surprising intelligence to all his Professors, before prematurely leaving his course on Occultism and Scripture Knowledge to live in a cardboard box under Queensboro Bridge, muttering under his breath about the Angelus searching for the Darkness. It should be noted however that, although a good person at his core, Johnny Powell is an extremely unreliable lad (the Manhattan-based mafia family Estacado can vouch for that) and therefore, his pronunciation on words should not be taken as gospel. [ return to text ]
> 
> 9 Footnote: Cultist George's description was more akin to Johnny Bravo than of Crowley, but if you were given Cultist George's description and then presented with Crowley, your reaction would more or less be, "Ohhh, _riiiiight!_ I see it now." [ return to text ]


	3. The Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thank you to To the WORLD ([209musiclover](https://209musiclover.tumblr.com/)) on Discord for the idea of the faux-French restaurant and its name. It felt like such a _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ -style joke that I just had to include it in this chapter.
> 
> Also, the fic is named after a joke from the _Jeeves and Wooster_ novels.
> 
> And thank you again for your lovely comments. I love receiving them. I hope you enjoy this chapter.

_(June 29th. Morning.)_

"You drew this, Warlock? It looks wonderful!" beamed Nanny Ashtoreth.

Warlock had drawn a picture of something that involved a lot of different characters and a lot of the colour red. It was very complex for a child of his age.

His Nanny looked at the guillotine, rendered in coloured pencils.

"Clever machines, aren't they? What _will_ humanity think up next?"

She took the artwork and carefully pinned it to the fridge, right next to Warlock's previous piece: A drawing of Warlock surrounded by wild animals, with him trying to pet and feed each one of them. It had pink love hearts.

Just outside, Brother Francis noticed that there was a blank envelope lying on the front doorstep. The gardener looked up to see a person in the distance quickly retreating away, up the front path, disappearing past the front gates.

They were wearing red robes. _Strange..._

The envelope had no address, which meant it was hand-delivered. Aziraphale put two and two together. It piqued his interest. Placing his trowel down, Aziraphale picked up the envelope.

He considered the situation. It was probably for Mr. or Mrs. Dowling. But they _never_ got hand-delivered messages. Especially not from people wearing monk's robes.

Then the image of nuns filled his mind. The ones of the Chattering Order. His eyes narrowed.

And then he recalled what Crowley had said. About the man in the pub. His eyes narrowed even further.

 _Well,_ Aziraphale thought, _if it's not addressed to anyone, then how could we know for sure it wasn't meant for_ me _? I am the gardener of this household, after all._ With a little guilt, he opened the envelope.

It contained a letter, and the more he read of it, the more his eyes widened.

***

"Do you think this is connected with the phurba you found?" asked Aziraphale.

"Why _no_ , I'm sure this is all just a coincede--Of course it's bloody connected!" said Crowley in a hushed voice.

"Nanny, you cursed," said Warlock.

"Cursing is fine."

"Don't you listen to her, young master Warlock." said Aziraphale.

Crowley was carrying Warlock at her hip as she read the letter Aziraphale held out to her. Luckily, Warlock couldn't read, and was more interested in the Transformer in his hand than the piece of paper.

The letter began with a list of instructions to leave the package and the item it contained at a certain location and a certain time. It was written in black handwriting by a rushed hand, or possibly, by their non-dominant hand, to avoid their handwriting from being identified.

There was also a threat.

"'Follow, these instructions... or you will come to regret it,'" read Aziraphale.

"It's written in serial killer handwriting," frowned Crowley.

"What should we do?" asked Aziraphale.

"Let's ignore it," Crowley decided, lightly bouncing Warlock in her arms. "The Secret Service men will handle it."

Being the son of an American diplomat, Warlock Dowling was surrounded by no less than forty-two armed bodyguards distributed around the grounds of the estate. Both Crowley and Aziraphale thought this was overdoing it, but as the nanny and gardener, they had little to say about it.

***

Brother Francis was resting next to a pile of dirt as he spoke to Warlock. He was instructing the child in how to make a mud castle.

"Remember to wash once you go inside. Cleanliness is close to godliness."

"Okay," said Warlock, patting down the soil and wiping the dirt on his hands onto his Kermit the Frog overalls.

Nanny Ashtoreth walked over to them. Tucking the helm of her dress, she knelt down next to the gardener.

"I think we should meet at one of the alternate rendezvous," she whispered. "I've been thinking things through, and I don't like it."

Aziraphale saw the concern on her face and nodded. "Restaurant Option D? Tomorrow?"

"Can we do it before tomorrow?"

Aziraphale frowned. "Yes. But why? Is there something important at that time?"

"Yeah. There's this Kids Art Workshop Eight-and-Under at the public library that Warlock _really_ wants to go to."

"Oh."

***

_"In my imagination, there is no hesitation. We walk together hand in hand..."_

Aziraphale and Crowley sat together in a restaurant called Bubba Cho’s House Of French Cuisine.[10]

The music playing in the background was a song Crowley recognised. It was Kylie Minogue's _I Should Be So Lucky_.[11]

_"It's a crazy situation. You always keep me waiting. Because it's only make believe..."_

_"And I would come a-running, to give you all my loving. If one day you would notice me..."_

Aziraphale ate another pork bun. He placed his chopsticks down.

"That was delicious," he said, pulling out a handkerchief. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Oh yes." Crowley was leaning back in his chair.

"But you left one."

Seeing that Aziraphale had finished his last char siu bao[12], Crowley placed one of his own on the angel's plate. "I'm full. Go ahead."

"Thank you, my dear."

_"My heart is close to breaking, and I can't go on faking... The fantasy that you'll be mine..."_

"About the... the _you know what_. The cult..." said Aziraphale. "I'm going to contact Gabriel about it."

"You're going to give the blade to Gabriel?" said Crowley quietly.

"Oh, I say! No. _That's_ going to go someplace no one can use it... Just as soon as I think up a place."

"Uh-oh," said Crowley. "Look over there." He discreetly pointed his chopsticks to the space behind Aziraphale. The angel turned around.

Gabriel had just entered the restaurant.

Aziraphale frowned. "Speak of the Devi--"

"Not quite," said Crowley dryly.

Aziraphale turned to look back at Crowley, but there was no one there. The tablecloth moved and he looked down.

Crowley had hid under the table.

Before Aziraphale could say anything, Gabriel gracefully walked over. Fortunately, he did not notice the extra empty plate next to Azriaphale's.

"Greetings, Aziraphale." He glanced down at the plates. "You're eating _again?_ Shouldn't you be trying to do that less? To prevent your body from being corrupted?"

Crowley silently muttered something violent under his breath. He stayed curled up beneath the table, knees to his chin, staring at Gabriel's copper shoes.

"Well," said Aziraphale, " _we humans_ must eat regularly, mustn't we?"

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, but moved on with the conversation.

"I came to clear something up with your last report. It was very... brief." He was smiling, but it wasn't a pleasant smile. It was the smile he gave before he smited someone.

Gabriel sat down without an invitation. This made Crowley jump a little, but he quickly moved back to allow more room for Gabriel's intrusion.

"You didn't mention anything about your warfare with the Enemy. Crowley."

"Yes. Well, he's still around. Still scheming. But defeating him is going to take _time._ He is a very clever, _wily_ demon."

Crowley nodded.

"Yes, he must be. You two have been going at it for six-thousand years." Gabriel's expression changed. "Anyway, next item on the agenda: Last month, I received a _brick_ of a report from Miracle Accounting about the miracles you've been preforming." He punctuated the words slowly, as if Aziraphale was a child who had trouble paying attention. "You _more_ than exceeded last month's allowance."

 _Prat,_ thought Crowley.

"Why did you need to miracle two tickets for the Royal Albert Hall?" asked Gabriel.

"Um..." Aziraphale decided to swiftly move the subject to what was on his mind. "It's actually ideal that you visited me today. I have some important new information for you."

"Really? Lay it on me."

"Ah. I recently..." Aziraphale paused to carefully choose his phrasing. He didn't want to name drop Crowley, which meant that he needed to be vague. "I recently discovered that some sort of cult has become rather active. Running around, delivering messages, wearing red robes and that, so I've been told. And I have reason to believe that they're up to something. Something involving demon-hunting relics."

Gabriel shrugged. "And?"

"Well. We... We should stop them?"

"Why? If they're going around hunting demons, that's a _good_ thing. Sounds like they're harmless."

"Um..."

"Worried they're stealing your thunder?" laughed Gabriel. "I'm sure you'll destroy Crowley before they do."

Aziraphale didn't know what to say to that.

Crowley dodged Gabriel's foot as it kicked out to stretch. Crowley realised he needed to be smaller.

_"I'm dreaming... That you're in love with me... Like I'm in love with you... But dreaming's all I do. If only they'd come true..."_

"Is there... anything else you want to tell me?"

Gabriel had a way of asking questions in a way that made one feel guilty.

The phurba was burning a hole in Aziraphale's pocket, metaphorically-speaking.

"No," said Aziraphale innocently, "Nothing."

"Right." Gabriel got up to walk away. He stopped and turned around. "Oh. And... Aziraphale?"

"Yes?"

The Archangel's eyes grew dark. "I _better_ not get another report from you about an excess of miracles. No more until the end of the month."

"Oh. Right."

Gabriel's eyes cleared back their shining lavender colour.[13]

" _Great._ Keep up the good fight!" he smiled, patting Aziraphale's shoulder a bit too hard.

Gabriel walked out.

Aziraphale let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

 _Well, looks like I'm on my own with untangling this problem,_ he thought.

Well, he wasn't entirely on his own.

A woman screamed. Aziraphale quickly turned around to see her pointing at something underneath his table. He glanced down and saw a black snake's tail poking out from under the table. The owner of it pulled it back beneath the tablecloth, but by then it was too late.

Crowley, in an effort to making himself smaller had transformed into a serpent. Not his larger shape from Eden, but a smaller version.

Not really knowing what to do, Aziraphale placed a couple of crumpled fivers onto the receipt tray, reached under the table, scooped up Crowley, and left without a word. The woman was still screaming, but no one stopped him.

Crowley hissed appreciatively.

 _She really ought not to have panicked back there,_ thought Aziraphale, approaching Crowley's Bentley. _Snakes aren't even frightening._

_"I should be so lucky. Lucky, lucky, lucky. I should be so lucky in love."_

***

Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis arrived back at the Dowling's. It was late midday, and Warlock had been left in the care of the Secret Service men.

As the two of them approached the front steps however, they realised that something was wrong.

The home had been ransacked.

By the time they entered the vestibule, Crowley had dropped her carpet bag down and rushed to see what had happened in the next room. Aziraphale was right behind her.

The umbrella stand in the entrance hall had been emptied and left on its side, the sliding closet left open, with jackets tossed on the floor. Each pocket had been turned inside out.

They ran forward, passing the different rooms of the Dowling's estate.

The kitchen drawers had all been opened, with their contents left on the floor in a mess. Aziraphale stepped over the vegetable knives left scattered on the floor.

The dining room had the tablecloth removed, but instead of the placemats and napkin holders staying on the table like an old sleight of hand trick, everything that had been on the table had come crashing with it.

The Secret Service men were scattered around, lying on the ground, not moving. Aziraphale had to stop for a moment to look around and take it all in. He had the sensation of hovering in the middle of the ocean, not knowing which direction to go. "Oh my G--Oh my _somebody_..."

Crowley knelt down next to one of the bodies and checked for a pulse. They were alive, but knocked out.

Aziraphale looked back at the vestibule and spotted something he had missed earlier. Near the front door, leaning against the wall, there was a large standing bell. It looked very old, and had been shattered by a mallet, which was still embedded in the bell's remains.

Aziraphale was well-read and recognised it as the occult relic that had put everyone to sleep.[14]

The angel marched forward.

Crowley let go of the Secret Service man and quickly followed after her counterpart. "Aziraphale, be _careful!_ "

In the television room, the sofa cushions had been torn open, leaving an explosion of down feathers. The DVD shelf of animated films had been flipped on its side, spilling everything so that the angel and demon had to wade through it.

Whoever had been here had been looking for something, and had checked everything in the house that could have concealed that something.

The two passed one destroyed room after another. They were on their way to Warlock's room.

"Warlock!" yelled Aziraphale.

"Warlock!" yelled Crowley. "WARLOCK! Where _ARE_ YOU?!"

Aziraphale and Crowley had silently agreed that they would be godparents to Warlock in a professional manner. Taking care of the child's welfare, but ultimately staying emotionally-detached from him. But time had a way of changing things, even when you're immortal.

They reached Warlock's room. The art-covered door was open.

_No._

Like all the other rooms, it had been disassembled. Not nearly as much as the previous rooms, with Warlock's toys and furniture left unscathed. Which meant that either the thugs had gotten too tired by this point, or they had found what they were looking for. The latter was incorrect, but...

Crowley and Aziraphale didn't see Warlock.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, saw the utter horror and despair on her face, and felt like he could sink through the floor. He wanted to comfort her, but was at a loss for words.

But then, there was a glimmer of hope.

There was crying suddenly coming from inside the room. It was the sobbing of a five-year-old.

Crowley went over to the source--a Jumbo Lego tupperware boxTM\--and removed the lid. Inside was Warlock.

He had been playing in the box when the bell had rung and everyone in the household who wasn't wearing earplugs fell asleep.

"Nanny! Mr. Fwancis!" cried the child. He reached out and Crowley took him in her arms.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Amazing they didn't check there." She looked at the floor. "There's plastic bricks all over the place."[15]

Aziraphale looked at Warlock's bed. The pillow had not been torn open, but a folded piece of paper had been left on it.

It had a wax seal with a symbol stamped in it.

It was another note with instructions. This time, it had red ink instead of black.

Aziraphale showed it to Crowley instead of reading it out loud. He refused to read it out loud.

At the bottom, the note read: _"Next time, we take the boy."_

Crowley and Aziraphale both looked at Warlock in Crowley's arms. She squeezed Warlock protectively.

"I've had quite enough of all this." said Aziraphale.

"Angel, we've got to _do_ something."

Aziraphale held up the letter with the seal. "We've got this."

Aziraphale was, despite customary evidence of the contrary, intelligent. Book smart. He could recognise and identify a symbol when he saw it. The seal was marked with the symbol of the Cult of the Secret Nine. The cult fell into obscurity in the late 1800s. It wasn't known for wearing red robes, but it seemed that they were trying to move with the times. Aziraphale told Crowley all this.

"And what does that give us?" said Crowley impatiently.

"Well, it means," said Aziraphale with agitation, "that what we are dealing with here is definitely a cult!"

"Yeah. Got it. But how do we _stop_ them?"

"First, we'll need to find out where they have their meetings. They must have some method to communicate with each other."

"Let's hope they don't use Skype." said Crowley dryly.[16]

"I know what to do," said Aziraphale. "In the meantime, are you going to..." He gestured to the desolation around them. "Fix this? I can't use any miracles for the rest of the month."

Crowley assessed the damage and then looked back at Aziraphale. "Nah. Maybe it'll keep the Secret Service men on their toes," she said with a grin.

***

Shortly after, the Secret Service men woke up, wondering vaguely just how much they'd drunk the night before. The ones that practised total abstinence put it down to a lack of sleep. None of them questioned it further, because none of them knew if any _other_ Secret Service men had fallen unconscious. They never asked. No one wants to be the first one to say that the Emperor has no clothes. Or, in this case, on one wants to be the first to ask if the Emperor also fell asleep.

They were so sheepish, they didn't ask why the place was such a mess.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dowling finally arrived home, Mr. Dowling simply responded with, "Kids will be kids. Warlock's a growing boy with lots of energy." This was, after all, what insurance was for, as Mrs. Dowling put it.

In fact, so embarrassed were the Secret Service men, they did not bother to ask what had happened to their respective guns.

All forty-two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 Footnote: Bubba Cho’s House Of French Cuisine was the sort of faux-posh restaurant aimed at the middle-class to upper-middle-class couple. Owned by a company known for its casual barbecue and fast-food chains, the restaurant was opened in the hopes that it would allow the company to expand itself into something more highbrow and fancy. It did not. It turned out they made the _best_ pork buns. [ return to text ]
> 
> 11 Footnote: The last time Crowley had heard it was in 1990. It was playing in the Bentley's radio as he sat in the driver's seat, waiting for Aziraphale.
> 
> Some might have wondered why a pop song was playing in a French restaurant. One might also wonder why this French restaurant couldn't seem to make any decent French cuisine. [ return to text ]
> 
> 12 Footnote: Char siu bao: Steamed buns with barbecue pork filling. Aziraphale and Crowley first discovered bao around the third century, with both of them agreeing that it was a good innovation on humanity's part. [ return to text ]
> 
> 13 Footnote: Gabriel had Elizabeth Taylor eyes. Not Elizabeth Taylor _-like_ eyes, but her actual eyes. Gabriel eventually saw them and thought, _Those eyes look beautiful and unique. I'll take them._ [ return to text ]
> 
> 14 Footnote: The standing bell was known as the Chime of Soporificy. Not to be confused with the Chime of Deliverance. [ return to text ]
> 
> 15 Footnote: Due to a past experience, Cultist Martin refused to go anywhere near the Lego bricks on the floor. [ return to text ]
> 
> 16 Footnote: The prophetess, Agnes Nutter, wrote the following prophecy regarding Skype:  
> 
>
>> Prophecy 1112. Sum say to choose Skye, butte they be Unwise. Use notte, for it sharl cause hedd of weariness from Up Dates that runneth free. Insteade ye use Discourse. For it be mayk by wiser myndes of computrs. Allso, do notte up grade to Wyndows Eighth. [ return to text ]


	4. The Lift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse Aziraphale not looking enough like Brother Francis in the comic below. It's an old drawing I made before Good Omens aired. Just imagine that Aziraphale looks like Brother Francis in the comic, and that should fix things.
> 
> Also, thank you for your comments. You're so kind! I keep thinking about them as I write this.
> 
> Additional note: I've updated the tags because I'm writing Crowley as ace for this fic.

_Intermission:_

_End of Intermission._

***

_(June 30th. Morning.)_

Warlock was on the playground. His nanny sat on a bench, watching him play. Next to her sat a man who looked like a librarian from the 1930s. Bowtie and camelskin coat. He was pretending to read Wodehouse.

Crowley smiled proudly as she watched Warlock stomp on a sandcastle in the play pit.

"So, we're really doing it tonight then?" she said.

"Yes," said Aziraphale, not looking up from his book. They didn't know each other, and he had to play that part. Just two strangers on a bench. "As the letter instructed. Tonight."

"We're on a mission to stop a cult. It's like James Bond." Crowley wanted to rub her hands together.

Aziraphale looked up from the book. "Crowley, be _careful._ If they somehow acquired a phurba, who knows what else they may have."

"Don't _worry,_ angel." said Crowley in her laid-back tone, "I'll take the greatest care."

In the distance, Warlock started doing a very convincing impression of Godzilla in the sand pit. Not a single tower was left unstomped.

"Speaking of 'the greatest care...'" said Crowley. "You still, uh... got that phurba?"

"My dear, of course n--Uh, oh..." Aziraphale patted his coat and found the outline of the tartan eyeglasses case.

Crowley's expression was unimpressed. "You've still got it in your pocket, haven't you?"

"I... couldn't think of a place to keep it."

Crowley thought about offering to put it in the safe in her flat. But that would have required her to open it, and she preferred not to, given what else was kept in there.

"We just need to stay vigilant." said Aziraphale. "We can stop the cultists."

Warlock toddled over to their bench, holding a truck that, moments ago, had been a robot.

"Nanny, what's a cultist?" asked Warlock.

Aziraphale winced. "Er..."

"Well, it's, uh--"

Then she stopped short when she saw Aziraphale's glare.

***

The sun had gone down as Cultist Martha reached to the meeting spot.

She walked over to a red phone booth next to a fir tree. She checked behind the phone booth. The parcel was there, wrapped up in paper and tied together in string. Moon would be pleased.

Cultist Martha took the brown paper-wrapped parcel.[17]

Cultist Martha walked off into the cool summer evening.

In the short grass, a black snake slithered after her.

***

The building was not at all like how cult hideouts looked in films, like Crowley had anticipated.

It was a brick building in the docks of Rotherhithe, London. An oldish, industrial building originally built for an office firm. Now it was divided by floors. The first floor was a lawyer's firm. The second was a accountant's company. The third was a money laundering scheme posing as a pets photo opt studio, but the less said about that, the better. Floor four however...

Crowley slithered through a gap in the door and curled up around a potted plant in the empty lobby on the ground floor. Hidden beneath the cover of some _Philodendrons_ , he watched the coloured lights above the lift.

He was currently a very small snake. Small enough to comfortably inside Aziraphale's coat pocket. He flicked out his tongue impatiently.

The coloured lights lit up in succession, then stopped at four. _So that's where it was,_ thought Crowley.

Floor four was the Den of the Secret Nine.

Crowley turned back into his favourite form and pulled out his mobile phone. He pressed the only personal number in his address book. It got answered after the first ring.

"Well? Where is it?" asked the familiar, _clever_ voice.

Crowley gave the address.

"Right, I'll meet you there," said the angel.

Crowley hung up. He needed to wait for Aziraphale. And he did.

For a time.

But then Crowley had a Very Stupid Idea. He had been watching too many spy films, and had come up with a rather improbable fantasy.

He'd go up, take a quick look round, then go back to the ground floor to make contact with Aziraphale. Then they could stop whatever was going on _together_.

Crowley changed his shape again.

Ms. Astoreth Crowley took the lift.

***

Crowley went up to the fourth floor.

There were a bunch of doors. Three doors to the different lavatories. The janitor's broom cupboard--locked. A dingy back door leading to a room filled with wires and things wrapped in plastic sheets. And an even dingier door that led to the unused staircase. And then...

She found the door that led somewhere.

She stepped through the threshold just like that. No secret knock. No "swordfish" password. Not even a keycard lock. Crowley was almost disappointed.

Some sort of obstacle would have been _good_ , because that would have slowed Crowley down from opening the door and stepping through. In this case however, Crowley had now fully-entered the room and realised--too late. Far, far too late--that she was the only person in the place that wasn't wearing a cult uniform of the standard red variety. Crowley was wearing a shade of black that rather caught the eye.

The room was an entranceway that divided off into the different hallways. It was filled with many cultists. Some were chatting next to the water cooler. Some were on their phones. Others were actually doing work. They all turned to look at Crowley.

They dropped what they were doing and gave chase.

***

Crowley ran back to the rusty door that lead to the stairs going down.[18] No time to use the lift.

Down, down, down the stairs...

Floor three.

Floor two.

Ground floor.

Crowley turned a corner and looked back. She was out of their line of sight. She had a split second to do what she needed to do next.

The demon quickly shed one form for another. One with a suit and thin snakeskin scarf.

The cultists ran past Anthony J. Crowley, looking for the nanny. One of them even asked if Crowley had seen a woman looking like Mary Poppins run past, to which he just shrugged and shook his head.

The cultists trickled out of the building to continue their search. Crowley began to walk out as some of the slower cultists began reaching the ground floor entrance.

Crowley's mind traitorously went back to the Moment. He had filed it away, and it had come back to the surface. _Aziraphale._ The Enemy. But an enemy for _so long_ that he had become something else entirely to Crowley.

The demon wondered if Aziraphale felt the same way. He was a creature of love after all--the angel had described himself as that to Crowley multiple times--but it was that distanced, angelic love. The kind of love that makes you smile at strangers on the street and help people cross the road. A sort of detached sense of duty. Like whenever Crowley stopped the Wi-Fi in West London during lunchtime. Just something you crossed off a weekly checklist.

What _Crowley_ wanted to know was, did Aziraphale reciprocate a more _personal_ love? A more _selfish_ love?

He needed to find out somehow. He hissed irritably, his shoulders hunched, deep in thought. He was _besotted_.

Though he would deny it if asked about it, Crowley was a romantic.[19] He wanted to lace his fingers through Aziraphale's. He wanted to sit next to Aziraphale and lean his arm next to his, to rest a head on the angel's shoulder. He wanted to take the angel to a dance floor and find out if Aziraphale could dance anything other than the gavotte. He wanted to take Aziraphale to a restaurant and call it a _date_. He wanted to do unspeakable things like _snuggle_ next to Aziraphale.

Unfortunately, that was when Cultist George--who at this point, after a lot of huffing, had finally exited the stairs--recognised Crowley as the young man he had met in the Spaniards Inn.

Crowley looked up at the sky, wondering what it would be like to cuddle up to the angel while watching a film together. What film would they watch? Something nice. Something they could both enjoy. Maybe he'd introduce Aziraphale to another Bond film. Would they watch the film at Crowley's flat, on his expensive white sofa, with his flat screen television? Or would they watch it at Aziraphale's bookshop, on his sofa, with--?

Something hard struck him painfully on the back of the head.

Crowley's body twisted like an injured serpent as he flopped onto the hard pavement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 17 Footnote: A parcel which contained a necklace constructed of some string and macaroni. Courtesy of the young artist Warlock Dowling. [ return to text ]
> 
> 18 Footnote: A difficult feet in Crowley's flat heel snakeskin shoes. [ return to text ]
> 
> 19 Footnote: Receiving a surprise bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates to celebrate the opening of your new bookshop? First editions of P.G. Wodehouse novels anonymously sent to your doorstop as an unexpected birthday gift? Your favourite champagne at a fancy restaurant, with a grand piano playing softly in the background? Someone coming to your aid like a dashing hero from oh so many regency romance novels you've read over the centuries? When it came to grand, sweeping romantic gestures, Crowley was your demon. Or rather, Aziraphale's. [ return to text ]


	5. The Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, we're finally at chapter five. There is a metaphorical storm coming...
> 
> People have started sending me comments that they're discreetly reading my fics while they're at work, and I'm just imagining it like it's [some kind of covert operation.](https://media.giphy.com/media/ZNFmtw8hXOJu8/giphy.gif) You're awesome. Thank you for your comments!

_(June 30th. Evening.)_

Some time later, Aziraphale paid the cab driver and stepped out.

He scanned the buildings along the dock and found the brick building with the correct address.

Aziraphale entered. He looked around the lobby. There was a lift, some stairs, and potted plant. Crowley was noticeable by his absence.

He sighed. _Oh, Crowley. Where have you gone?_

Aziraphale realised he would have to go investigate. He entered the lift as a part-time rare book dealer and exited the lift as a robbed cult member. He decided on the name Cultist Ezra.

He entered the door on the fourth floor. Upon close scrutiny, his imagined robes[20] were not exactly the same as the other cult members, but fortunately, no one was scrutinising him.

Kate Bush's genius boomed through the speakers, although Aziraphale did not recognise it.

_"If I only could... Make a deal with God... And get Her to swap our places..."_

He asked the front desk where the person in charge was, and was given directions by a bored but friendly cultist. Cultist Ezra went down the hall.

_"Oh... Come on, angel... Come on, come on, darling... Let's exchange the experience..."_

***

Crowley woke up.

The circle was the first thing he noticed. It glowed a harsh red that seemed to pulsate like a heartbeat. The circle was painted in white and he was lying in the centre of it. He stood up.

He felt like the bones in his legs had been removed, with water substituted. He wobbled groggily, trying to get his bearings.

"Ah. You're awake. Welcome... to the Den of the Secret Nine."

This had been everything he had been working towards. He had been searching for relics that would eventually lead him to bringing a demon to his knees. Granted, he hadn't expected a demon to just arrive at his doorstep, practically gift-wrapped. But Moon wasn't about to complain.

Everything was falling nicely into place.

Crowley was still too preoccupied to fully take in the low voice that had just spoken.

The demon brushed his hand over his face. He noticed his sunglasses were gone. He tried to miracle a new one out of thin air. He couldn't.

Crowley's eyes focused more. He took in his surroundings. Big, darkened room. Lots of relics. Several people in tacky cult robes. The one on the throne probably thinking himself to be the leader.

Crowley was in the lion's den.

The cult's leader spoke. "It seems Fate has given us quite a gift! A demon. And one of the Old Ones."

He pulled out an old book that would have fit right in with Aziraphale's collection and flipped to a bookmarked page. He stood up and extended his arm to show the page to Crowley. Even with the distance between them, Crowley could see. There was a painting from the sixteenth century of a young man with red hair that fell in curls, eating an apple whilst sitting in the shade of a tree, with black feathered wings.

"Greetings, _Crawly_."

Crowley wilted at hearing that name. He thought it was finally dead and buried in the past. He looked down to see that the swirly, snakelike sigil that represented him was included in the circle. That explained why the circle was glowing. No mistakes. He was properly binded to the spot. It was fortunate that he didn't try sticking his hand out of the circle.

Crowley thought about his options and decided to play it cool. " _Look_ people..." he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I think there's been some sort of mistake here."

And that was when Aziraphale entered.

There was something Crowley felt that wasn't quite pride upon seeing Aziraphale coming to his rescue. Crowley grinned like a madman.

They locked eyes and Aziraphale let out a breath. _There you are._

Moon turned. "I... don't recognise you. Who are you?"

It dawned on Aziraphale that he wouldn't be able to use his powers to get Crowley and himself out of this situation. The realisation came crashing down on him.

Gabriel's reprimand... Aziraphale couldn't do any miracles unless it was an emergency. Even then, he _still_ couldn't, because of what Heaven might do to Crowley. He couldn't be sure if Miracle Accounting would tag the bill as _Used ethereal powers to rescue a demon,_ or not, before handing it to Gabriel.

No more miracles. He was, essentially, in this moment, _human_. But then again, Aziraphale had begun to realise that being human was not a bad thing.

Humans could lie, for one thing.

"Oh! Me?" said Aziraphale. "Well, I'm... Ezra."

"Ezra. Well," Moon said the name with a dismissive gesture, like the name would do for the day. "Now that you're here, you may stay to watch."[21]

"Right. Uh, watch what, exactly?" said Aziraphale, glancing around.

"What we have been building up to." Moon took a few steps forward, and placed his attention back on Crowley. "Here's the _deal_..." said Moon. And already, Crowley and Aziraphale's blood ran cold.

"You will lend me your powers-- _all_ of your powers--and in return, you can have my soul once I die."

There was a long stretch of silence. The room seemed to become a vacuum.

"Well, I'm not interested," said Crowley with a shrug. "I don't make deals involving souls. Not really my style. I'm more of the _tempting_ sort of demon. Bit out of practice with contracts. You'd want another demon for the old soul-type deal."[22]

Moon appeared to be rather nonplussed. "I... don't believe you're in a _position_ to refuse, Crawly."

Aziraphale was about to correct him with, _It's Crowley, not Crawly_ , but then realised this might have made their situation worse, and stayed silent.

Crowley sneered. "Humans who try to make deals with demons. You're thick, the lot of you."

Moon raised an eyebrow. "Are you not a demon of your word? Think you'll back out of it?"

"We don't have to. You all end up being hoisted by your own flagpole, because you never _wish_ properly. You always wish for what you _think_ you want, not what you _really_ want."

"And what do _you_ really want?"

"I... Come again?"

Moon shrugged. "Every man has his price. Every demon too, I assume. What would a demon desire?"

"Ngk..."

"You want souls for your army. For the battle between Heaven and Hell."

"Oh, right!" replied Crowley, as if he'd been sharply pulled out of something. "Right. Souls. Look, you don't want to give me you soul! You definitely don't want that once you die of old--"

"I hardly see that as a problem, since your powers will make me unkillable and forever young."

Crowley starred blankly. This wasn't the first time a human had tried to pull a loophole in a pact with demon, but the way Moon smiled made Crowley want to curl into a ball and slither under a rock.[23]

But he couldn't. He had to stand trapped in the middle of a demon circle.

A cultist brought in a stack of papers. They weren't old papers yellowed with age. They had been freshly printed from a computer.

"Our contract," said Moon. "Read through it and we'll shake hands on it."

" _Sure_ we will," said Crowley flatly.

The cultist was careful not to let their hand enter the circle when they handed the papers to Crowley. Crowley began to speed-read through the text with a furrowed brow. He wasn't enjoying the read.

"Blah, blah, blah... Be your servant until your death... blah-dee, blah-dee, blah... Contract nullified if terms are not fulfilled..."

It was a typical demonic contract. It made sure close off typical loopholes. Crowley decided that this cultist leader must have really done their research.

Aziraphale, who during this time had been desperately trying to come up with a plan, began to speak. "Uh, are you _certain_ that this is a good idea? I mean, you can't trust demons. They're _wily_ and cunning and smart--"

"I don't think that's you're place to say what I do," said Moon with a cold anger. He began to scrutinise Aziraphale.

Then he scrutinised some more.

"Wait a minute... your robes look..."

He glanced around at the other cultists.

"Brothers. It seems a traitor is among us," his voice boomed.[24]

Guns were pulled out. Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged glaces and wondered how on Earth a group of English cultists based in London had managed to acquire so many CIA-issued Magnum .32s.[25]

It was time for some more lying. Or some good-old deception at the very least.

Aziraphale scoffed. "Do you honestly think that _mere bullets_ can kill me? I could make you all disappear with a _snap_ of my fingers."

Moon paused. _Good._ He was hesitating.

He looked at Aziraphale, the wheels turning in his head. Processing what this stranger had just uttered.

"You don't look like a demon," said Moon darkly.

"A de--!" Aziraphale looked scandalised, but remembered himself. "W-Well, looks can be deceiving." He snapped his fingers and his robes were replaced by his favourite attire, bowtie and all.

The non-miracle-- _Clothing changes absolutely could _not_ be counted as miracles,_ Aziraphale thought to himself--went down well with the cultists. They all flinched back for a moment.

For a moment.

Moon composed himself, straightening his tunic. "Fortunately, the guns contain bullets that have been blessed by our priest, Cultist Pic--Well, you don't need to know which cultist.[26] What you _do_ need to be concerned with is that we are armed with holy bullets."

Crowley made a noise. Holy bullets would not be able to destroy the angel's essence, but a bullet-- _any_ bullet--would still kill his body. And Crowley would not allow that.

They were still going to shoot Aziraphale.

That could not happen.

Moon glanced between Aziraphale and Crowley. "I assume you two are friends?"

Aziraphale shook his head quickly. "Er, no. We don't know each other. We've never met before--"

"You're a _liar_. Two demons in one place? By accident? Do you really expect me to believe that? You're friends."

"No we're not. We're enemies, in fact."

"Well, then. Crawly won't mind if I destroy you? We only need one demon. Two would simply overcomplicate matters."

"I'm an angel!" said Aziraphale, grasping at one last straw.

"Well, that's clearly another lie," replied Moon in a monotone voice. He aimed his gun.

Crowley raised his hand. "Wait!" His voice was panicked.

Aziraphale closed his eyes in a wince. _No._

Crowley's voice became resolved. "If you promise not to kill anyone, we can make a deal."

"No. Out of the question," said the angel firmly.

Aziraphale wished he'd never thought up this plan.

"It needs to be added to the contract," said Crowley. "You and your cultist dogsbodies can't kill anyone. You can't command another person to kill someone." He tried to block off any loopholes.

There was no adding to the written contract. They both knew a verbal one was just as binding.

"Very well," said Moon.

Crowley nodded firmly. "We'll shake on it."

"I won't allow it," said Aziraphale. He stepped forward.

"Don't move," said Moon.

Aziraphale kept moving. Moon pointed down and shot at the floor next to Aziraphale's feet. Aziraphale stopped.

"I said, _don't move_."[27]

Clenching his fists, Aziraphale stayed where he was. How he _wished_ he could walk over there and chip the paint off the circle.

Then, with Moon's focus on Aziraphale, Crowley turned to the angel and _winked_.

Some winks left room for interpretation. Not Crowley's winks. Aziraphale read it with ease: _Trust me_.

Crowley extended his right hand out. Moon took it.

Aziraphale watched in horror as the two shook hands.

There wasn't a dramatic display. No sparks. No rush of wind. Nothing seemed to happen.

Until Moon made a flame appear in his hand.

While enchanted relics and drawn circles existed, magic was ultimately about _belief_.

Some humans had powers without even being consciously aware of it. People who always expect good things to happen to them and it would. On the other end of things, people who always expected bad things to happen to them often got just that. And if they believed in something enough, no matter how absurd it was, it would eventually come to pass.

Humans limited themselves by what they thought was impossible.

Being a cult leader, Moon was very good at using his mind and his words to convince others. If he wished to, and if he was given enough time, he could probably convince a person that every colour was pink. His mind was a weapon and it was always loaded.

What he didn't have was an open mind. His mind was _just_ open enough to believe in bells that rendered people unconscious. But he did not have enough of an open mind to remember to say "siblings" instead of "brothers." Nor did he believe that angels and demons could be anything other than enemies. Nor could he believe that he could ever be wrong. Moon lacked imagination.

While it may not seem like it at this point, this was good for Aziraphale and Crowley's sake. Imagine if Moon had the power to warp reality _and_ a proper imagination.

Moon, seeming satisfied, extinguished the flame. He began to picture what he'd do to start his conquest of the world. How he'd fix it. How he'd reshape it so that it was better. So that he was the centre of it.

He gave a smug look to the demon in the circle. "You and I will go far, Crawly."

Now it was Crowley's turn to grin. " _Will_ we though?"

Aziraphale snapped out of his state to watch his partner speak.

"Seems to me," shrugged Crowley, putting his hands in his pockets, "that any plans you have for... whatever it is you're planning--Power, right? Seems to me, any plans you have require _me_ in tip-top working condition."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. _What are you up to?_

"I mean, it would take a _very powerful weapon_ to kill a demon," continued Crowley pointedly, looking at Aziraphale as he punctuated the words. "But once that happens, that would bind my power to them a-a-and then, you wouldn't be able to keep using my powers. Because someone else would have control of them."

Aziraphale stared at him. The phurba. " _That_ was your plan?!"

Crowley shrugged nonchalantly once again. He was trying to present the whole concept casually. _This isn't a big deal, angel. Don't make it one. I don't want you to shed tears over this. Not over me. I got us into this mess, and I can get you out of it._

"My dear boy, you _can't_ ," said Aziraphale. "You know how bureaucratic they are! It could take _years_ to return back to Earth with a new body! There isn't _time!_ "

They both knew what that meant. If Crowley discorporated, it would take something along the line of seven years for him to return to Earth with a new body. Warlock would turn eleven in _six_ years.

"You'll do fine without me," said Crowley gently. He said it in a voice that made Aziraphale feel like his heart was being unpleasantly squeezed.

"No I won't. Because..."

And then the penny dropped. _You can't go because you mean the world to me._

It felt like a sudden burst of sunlight in his chest. He _knew._ He knew since the bomb fell in 1941. When Crowley used his miracle to save his books instead of the holy water. _He was in love._ He'd kept this knowledge buried behind walls of denial that were now suddenly crumbling.

_You mean the world to me..._

Aziraphale paused. _No, I take that back... I love you more than the Earth itself._

He fumbled for the eyeglasses case in his pocket, and pulled out the phurba.

He knew how to hold a weapon. He had before. He knew how to cut in a humane manner. He knew where to aim to make it as quick and painless for Crowley as possible.

But even so...

Aziraphale lowered the phurba, relaxing his arm. "I won't hurt you! Not now. Not _ever!_ "

By this point, Moon had been watching the proceedings in an almost trance. This was likely due to the fact that he had to listen to the exchange without much context. By this point, he had regained his grip.

He may not have understood just what the hell was going on. But he knew enough to understand that unless he did something right now, his plans would start falling apart. He saw the phurba, and that was enough writing on the wall for him.

"I'm not having you ruin things," said Moon. "Are you going to leave?"

There was no threat in his question, but there was a threat in his voice.

Crowley nodded as if he could answer on the angel's behalf. _Yes. He's leaving._

"No, I'm not," said Aziraphale. It was like there was an old, ancient fury surfacing through his blue eyes. Buried deep down for ages, now coming to the surface in a charged anger.

Just because you're an angel doesn't mean you're always sweetness and light. _Good_ does not equal _nice_.

Moon smiled and shook his head. "Then, Mister Ezra, I'm afraid I'm going to have to _eliminate_ you."

"You _promised_ \--" snarled Crowley. His nose scrunched up like an angry rattlesnake.

"I said I wouldn't _kill_ anyone. Hurt or maim, however..."

Moon gestured to Aziraphale. Crowley felt cold, naked fear.

Aziraphale's right arm twisted at an unnatural angle and there was an audible _snap_. Aziraphale cried out in pain. He clutched his arm.

His broken forearm hung uselessly at his side.

"No!" yelled Crowley. It was a shout that echoed through the room. "You... _bastard!_ "

Aziraphale was hurt. Because of _his_ powers.

Crowley's eyes flared out in colour. He wanted to run up to Aziraphale and comfort him. He wanted to run up to Moon and give him a _bunch of fives_. But he was trapped in a glowing circle.

Crowley's irises were a _blazing_ , angry yellow, the white of his sclera now gone. With his shades missing, Aziraphale could see that the demon had lost the humanity in his eyes that he concentrated so much on keeping. Aziraphale recognised what this meant.

Now, demon deals are a tricky business. The trick was to fulfil the _exact wording_ of the contract, but not necessarily the _spirit_ of it. While loopholes were par for the course, outright _breaking_ a deal on the part of the demon was simply not done. It just wasn't cricket.

Demons, in order to keep getting offers from humans, had to keep their reputation of never, ever, _ever_ breaking a deal they've struck.

The problem was, Crowley really was quite a bit out of practice when it came to contract loopholes. He racked his demonic brain but came up with nothing.

Except for one strange thought.

Demons couldn't break deals.

But you know who _could_ break a deal? Who broke promises all the time? _Humans_.

And you couldn't live amongst humans for thousands of years without learning a thing or two.

"I guess that's it then," said Crowley in a tired tone. It was a giving-up sort of tired. He was staring forward at nothing.

He lifted up a foot. He was about to step out of the circle, and Aziraphale realised.

"Don't!" said Aziraphale.

Crowley looked at the angel. "There's... I can't _think_ of anything else!"

"But, you can't! I... I..." He wanted to say, _I love you_. But he couldn't. Not here. Not surrounded by cultists who wanted to kill them. Not surrounded by all these relics built to harm and hold ethereal beings.

"I..." was all Aziraphale could say.

Crowley's foot went past the red glow of the sigil. "Goodbye, angel."

" _Anthony_..."

Outside the circle, Crowley's body crumpled to the floor.

And with a voice as fragile as ice, Aziraphale spoke. "... Crowley?"

Moments that are painful often feel like they're happening in slow motion.

Aziraphale stood in front of eternity.

The body that lay in front of him didn't move. Didn't twitch. Didn't breathe. It was an empty vessel now. There was nothing inside. Aziraphale wanted to let out a sob.

Crowley had discorporated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 Footnote: Not _miracled_ robes. After all, you could hardly call a change of clothes as a miracle. [ return to text ]
> 
> 21 Footnote: Moon wasn't exactly the best employer. He would not offer dental, saying that the Cult of the Secret Nine was a place to find purpose, rather than a career path. He didn't even celebrate the cult members birthdays or order catering to celebrate milestones towards the Cause. This was causing a lot of mounting resentment in the workplace, especially after the recent increase in acquiring relics, which had taken quite a toll on Cultist Rosaline, who had been spending _hours_ on the phone tracking down Objects of Interest from various sources. Moon also did not keep track of the names of his members. Which turned out to be a boon for Aziraphale. [ return to text ]
> 
> 22 Footnote: The longest-held, most serious pact Crowley had ever agreed to was the Arrangement he'd made with Aziraphale, which had so far lasted nine-hundred-and-ninety-four years. He'd never break it for anything. He still vividly remembered their handshake on that cold evening in 1020 A.D. [ return to text ]
> 
> 23 Footnote: See: _The Nobleman Twardowski who would never go to Rome_ (but ended up going to a pub called Rome), and _The Man who Would Never Stand on the Moon_ (but ended up standing on a sculpture of the moon) for various sods who tried to pull a fast one on a demon and failed. [ return to text ]
> 
> 24 Footnote: Cultist Martha, Cultist Jemimah, and Cultist Alex were all rather miffed at not being included. Once again, their leader had forgotten to say, "Brothers, Sisters, Siblings." And the next HR meeting was not scheduled until another three months. [ return to text ]
> 
> 25 Footnote: Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale would ever get an answer to that question, but readers were given an answer about two chapters ago. [ return to text ]
> 
> 26 Footnote: He had actually momentarily forgotten the rest of Mr. A. Pickersgill's name (no relation to Mr. U. Pickersgill, the vicar to Tadfield's local church). [ return to text ]
> 
> 27 Footnote: Someone outside should have heard the gunshot, but Cultist Rosaline had turned on the announcement radio system to play songs by Real Life at full blast to combat the monotony of her duties. [ return to text ]


	6. The Message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope readers are familiar with actor Peter Serafinowicz, and his role in _Good Omens_ (he voiced Crowley in the _Good Omens_ Radio 4 drama).
> 
> So many kind comments! I hope this chapter fulfils expectations! Sorry for the longer wait. I was working on some Good Omens pin designs this week because I found out the printing shop I wanted to use would not be available if I completed the designs later.

_(June 30th. Near midnight.)_

Aziraphale didn't move for the longest time. Time was meaningless.

Moon on the other hand, was furious, and made no secret of it. With Crowley discorporated, his powers had went with him.

Eventually, Aziraphale's ears focused enough to hear the last of Moon's bitter words.

"Well?! What do you have to say for yourself?"

After a million years passed, Aziraphale looked away from Crowley's body, and up at Moon. The angel said nothing.

Moon had a marked expression. His arms were crossed in contemplation. He had cooled down significantly after his yelling, and was now properly considering things.

He still had a demon. He still had a circle. He still had cultists.

"You'll be my contingency plan," he smiled.

Aziraphale took a step back, lifting his left hand up defensively as his right arm remained broken. It didn't seem likely that Moon would listen to the angel explain why he couldn't make a contract with a human.

Moon pointed a theatrical finger at Aziraphale. "GET HIM!"

***

Dying, or rather, being discorporated felt rather strange to Crowley. It wasn't like Falling at all. He felt his individual senses leave him, his vision was clouded by a gradual darkness, and he had felt a curious feeling that he wasn't alone.

There was a stretch of Nothing, and then...

He felt a burst of consciousness. In his mind's eye, he saw a vision of Death. The dark figure looked right at Crowley, with decaying, hollow sockets, and shook his head.

Nᴏ. Iᴛ ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.

***

Crowley woke up. He found himself in Hell.

He needed to find Aziraphale. _Now._ He had left the angel in less than ideal circumstances.

This was the first time he had been discorporated. He liked that body. He'd kept it for about six-thousand years. He didn't know what the exact process was to getting another one. He had a lose idea of what he'd have to do, but was rather unfamiliar with it all.

He _knew_ he had extras. He just didn't know where they were stored.

He squared his shoulders and headed to the Warehouse. Fists clenched and neck hunched, like he was about to fight a hell-hound in single combat.

***

Aziraphale was shadowed by five cultists and a cult leader. Six in total.

For Aziraphale, there was just himself. It was only him. It would only _be_ him for some considerable time, he thought.

He was greatly outnumbered.

***

Crowley brushed past all the lines and paperwork.

In the back he found the desk that supplied the warehouse clerk. No line up. _Lucky._

Crowley walked up to the clerk. Unlike the original demons, this one had thin horns. He was wearing a black waistcoat and a dark button up shirt, the collar held together with a string tie. His eyes were glazed over in apathy as he silently read a clipboard. He looked like the world's most bored gazelle trapped in a DVLA.[28]

"I'm looking for where to get a new body," said Crowley.

The demon across from him made no indication of even haring him.

"Excuse me," said Crowley, in a louder voice, "I'm looking for something."

"Aren't we all?" The demon didn't even glance up from this clipboard.

Ah. This was what Crowley would have to deal with.

Crowley leaned closer, leaning an elbow upon the desk. "Listen, you're new here, aren't you?"[29]

"About... eighty years. I died in 1935."

 _That explained the waistcoat,_ Crowley thought. "Exactly. I've been around since the Beginning. You've gotta give respect to the _Old_ demons."

Crowley got into his old tempting voice. Sowing seeds of doubt.

The demon finally looks up to make eye contact. "I give plenty of respect to the Old Ones!"

"Look, I'll just go over there, let you off, and I won't tell anyone about your appalling disregard towards me. How's that?"

"Listen, you _bounder--_ "

Crowley jumped past him. He ran for the door behind the clerk.

"Oi!"

"Sorry, can't stop," grinned Crowley. "Gotta help bring an end to something. You know how it is."

Crowley kept running. He hoped that Hell didn't find out about the deal. A demon could get into a lot of trouble breaking a contract with a human. It was a cardinal no-no.

***

"Make sure not to shoot him," said Moon. "We need the demon alive to properly bind him."

Aziraphale glanced at the book that was still in Moon's arms. It was old, thick, and red.

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed.

***

The room was dark an dingy. Most of them were, but this particular room gave you the impression that you were surrounded by the truly dead. And, in a sense, you were absolutely right.

Crowley looked at the lineup of varied corporations of himself. They stood side by side in blocks like a Roman legion. The warehouse seemed to go on forever. Some had dark hair. Some were female. Some were younger or older-looking. All had their eyes closed.

It didn't matter that he couldn't see their eyes. He knew they all had blank, soulless eyes. Until he _used_ them. In the end, they were always yellow eyes.

He scanned the rows upon rows of bodies. He was looking to pick one that looked like his original body.

Then he realised. If he picked another, _different_ body, it would be a good disguise. He could use that to his advantage once he got back to the cultists.

For a moment he considered what it would be like to have a different corporation. Having a whole new body was different than shapeshifting, but Aziraphale seemed to accept his appearance no matter how the demon presented himself. The thought gave Crowley some comfort.

It was hard picking a new body while under pressure and pressed for time. It was worse than watching Aziraphale trying to pick a new look.

But Crowley did it. A new corporation was chosen. He stepped in his new form like a glove.

He had black hair. He was two inches taller. He looked the same age, give or take a few years. He had a dark suit that was still _him_ , but with a black tie and red button-up shirt.

Crowley summoned a pair of aviator shades, self-consciously wishing he had time to find a mirror.

His teeth felt different as he rolled a forked tongue over them. He made a noise to test his vocal chords.

"Um... Ngk. Ahem. Erm..."

It was hard to tell, but his voice felt different.[30]

He walked over to the strategy table covered with sand and figurines. Hell had a lot of them. Crowley knew what they were.

He touched the pile of dirt shaped like England, and vanished.

***

Aziraphale assessed the situation.

It was five against one. They were armed with guns, but wouldn't fire them. However, he had to keep in mind that they could try using something else. His arm was broken and it hurt like hell.

If he ran--though it was not in his nature to run--he would soon have everyone outside being alerted and chasing after him as well. He wouldn't be able to use a miracle to evade them. It was nearing midnight, so the likelihood of quickly dashing outside and finding a taxi on the docks was close to nonexistent.

However, there was an even bigger problem: The book. The book with information on how to bind Crowley.

He needed to _get that book._

If he could find some way to subdue everyone in the room, he could take that book. If he ran, they would keep it.

Aziraphale wasn't fighting to survive. He wasn't even fighting to win.

He was fighting for Crowley.

Aziraphale placed his feet shoulder length apart, into a fighting stance. It was all coming back to him.

Fortunately, he still had something in his pocket.

Fortunately, angels were ambidextrous.

***

Crowley burst from the ground in front of the building. He brushed the non-existent dirt from his suit and ran in. If he had been slower, he would have noticed a car rolling up to the car park, driven by another cultist who had a passenger with her. But Crowley had missed them.

He ran through the office, too fast for the cultists to notice. Real Life continued to blare in the background.

_"Send me an angel... Send me an angel... Right now..."_

***

 _Flight or Fight_ is a strange phenomenon. The two feelings are not mutually exclusive. Those who are able to step into danger, face it, and _fight_ still feel the fear coursing through their body. This was the same for Aziraphale. He didn't dismiss the feeling, or pretend it wasn't there. Aziraphale accepted it and allowed his love for Crowley to be greater than the fear. He was resolved. Calm. Ready.

Aziraphale was fighting multiple cultists, despite the broken arm. In films he'd seen with Crowley, the hero would often get battered and still keep on fighting. So why not him, he thought.

Aziraphale was a Principality. In the Beginning, he had fought during the War.

He did not like the idea of fighting, in any capacity, but he was trained in using a sword. It had been a long time and he hadn't exactly been practising over the years, but fortunately, the cultists he was fighting didn't seem to know how to fight. They didn't take proper fighting stances. They left themselves open to being tripped. They didn't know how to use their legs to kick, Aziraphale realised.[31]

Aziraphale didn't intend to hurt them. But he would need to defend himself from punches. He made sure to keep all five of them in view at all times. He couldn't afford to let one of them get behind him.[32]

People who are taught to fight are taught to never target one opponent if there are more than two attackers. Instead, the fighter is meant to focus on whoever in particular is trying to cut them in half at that current moment.

Aziraphale came to the resolve that he would need to knock out each cult member in the room, and then discreetly leave through the reception room in a _borrowed_ set of robes.

His broken arm felt a new surge of pain. He clutched it with his hand, the phurba still in his grip.

He started to wonder just how he'd be able to do all this. He needed a helpmeet. He needed _Crowley_.

The door suddenly burst open. A man with jet black hair and sunglasses stood in the doorway.

Aziraphale recognised Crowley immediately. There was a flutter in his chest. The angel visibly brightened.

He was about to yell, _Crowley!_ but remembered that people have ears. Instead, he stood there for a moment, drinking him in as the cultists paused and looked curiously at the newcomer with dark hair.

"Who _the hell_ is this?!" said Moon.

"The flash bastard who's gonna make you regret starting your blasted cult!" said Crowley.

He gestured to Aziraphale. The angel felt a comforting warmth in his right arm. He moved it, flexing his fingers and wrist. His arm had been healed.

He quickly biffed the closest cultist.

Crowley snapped his fingers and the cultists fell asleep, dropping to the floor. Only Moon remained. Crowley wanted Moon to be fully awake when he gave him a piece of his mind.

Aziraphale beamed. "I can't believe you're here! I thought--"

"How do you like my new look?" asked Crowley, spreading his arms wide and strutting forward. He did a quick turn all around to show off his new suit.

"Your voice is a lot deeper," said Aziraphale.

The dark-haired demon frowned. "Don't you like it? You don't like it."

"No, no! It's not bad. Just different. I'll adjust," said Aziraphale with honesty.

Crowley visibly relaxed.

The demon wanted to snap his fingers and freeze time for them to talk further, but it was near-impossible to do that when several humans are all focusing their attention on you.

Moon watched the proceedings silently. He was deep in thought. He was not a fool and had realised that Crawly and the man with dark hair were one and the same. So now he had two demons--the one in sunglasses, and the one calling himself Ezra--who both had the power to warp reality, and he was now without powers from his broken pact, with a load of cultists asleep and the rest out of earshot. He needed a new plan. Moon needed a new bargaining chip.

As if on cue, another cultist came in, holding a squirming five-year-old. Honouring their previous threats, Warlock had been kidnapped.[33]

Before his two opponents could react, Moon grabbed Warlock from the cultist wondering why so many people were asleep on the floor. Now he was getting somewhere.

"You!" he yelled at Crowley. "Get back in the circle!"

Crowley glanced at the painted circle. It had stopped glowing ages ago, but his original body was still lifeless on the floor. It was rather unnerving seeing yourself lifeless in an undignified pile on the ground.

He wasn't going _there_ again. But Warlock...

The five-year-old tried to bite Moon, but was practically drowning in the thick, flowing robes that protected the cult leader.

"I'm sure I don't need to say what will happen if you don't," said Moon coldly.

Crowley's mind was swimming. He was about to snap his fingers, when Aziraphale _smiled_ and stepped forward.

Crowley had seen that smile before. Years ago, a man in a dark suit, accompanied by two more serious-looking men in suits, had visited Aziraphale's bookshop. They had walked around, saying that they would like to buy Aziraphale's property to knock down the bookshop and replace it with something like a block of flats or a retail outlet--something that made a lot of money. When Aziraphale politely told them that the shop was not for sale, they began flipping through the precious books without much care, and said that it would be unfortunate if something _happened_ to the bookshop before it was sold. Aziraphale had smiled and said something to them in a low voice as Crowley watched from a chair he was lounging in. The men left _and he never saw them again._

Crowley trusted the angel. He knew Warlock was in safe hands.

"We just wanted to look after our charge," said Aziraphale to Moon. "You must understand. Don't _you_ care about _your_ children?"

"What? The cultists? Ha! No! They're not my children in any sense of the word. I just need them to gain the power to reshape the world." Moon felt slightly odd. He usually kept his plans close to his chest. But he suddenly felt like finally speaking his mind. It was as if a filter had been removed from him. If he had been thinking clearly, he would have seen what the phurba in Aziraphale's hand had turned into. He continued. "I'd drop these people without a second thought if it suited me. They are simply a means to an end."

Moon looked at Aziraphale again. Aziraphale was holding out a microphone that Moon could have sworn he didn't have before. The microphone was attached to an absurdly long cord.

Moon's eyes followed it like a dotted line and saw that it led through the tiny space underneath the door. Moon didn't need to see it to know where it went.

It was connected to the sound system of the floor. The one that had been playing music outside. Moon had said some pretty damning things a short moment ago.

The microphone was turned on. Everyone and their dog had heard.

Aziraphale did not need to consult his pocket watch to know when midnight had struck. It had struck a minute ago. It was midnight. New month. New quota of miracles to use. Turning a blade into a recording device had been but a flick of the wrist. It was a subtle miracle. Nothing flashy. Nothing that Heaven would find related to Crowley or any demon-saving.

Moon ought to have seen it coming, really. It was the oldest trick in the book. Many a cultist leader had be exposed in similar ways. But it was difficult to keep your head when you had a child in your arms who clearly did not want to be there.

Moon had become quite desperate by this point. He pulled out the CIA-issued Magnum .32 he still had in his pocket. He held it up near the boy's head.

Warlock began to cry. He wanted his nanny. He wanted to play outside with the gardener. He wanted to go back home to his Transformers and books and banana-flavoured bubble gum.

Crowley's face darkened. "Oh, no you _don't_." Without much thought, he ran forward.

Moon pointed the gun at Crowley and pulled the trigger.

Aziraphale blinked.

A tiny flame appeared in the barrel of the handgun. No bullet. No loud bang.

It was a cigarette lighter shaped like a gun. Moon looked as surprised as Crowley. The demon turned to look at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale smiled softly. _Yes._

Through watery eyes, Warlock finally spotted a good opening and seized it. He kicked Moon very hard in the shin. Moon let go in surprise and Warlock ran to hide behind the man who looked like a librarian.

The door was flung open with a bang. Cultists burst in and rushed Moon, demanding to know just what the bloody hell was going on.

With everyone's attention turned to Moon, Crowley stopped time. With a snap, the pandemonium of cults turned into a life-sized diorama. Warlock stayed exactly where he was, his hands covering his eyes, crouched behind Aziraphale. Motes of dust hung frozen in midair.

Neither one knew who stepped forward first, but Crowley and Aziraphale ran to each other, closing the distance between them. Together in a tender embrace.

They hugged.

Aziraphale was close to shedding tears. His body trembled. "My dear, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't do what you told me--"

"Shh..." Crowley brushed Aziraphale's hair comfortingly.

Aziraphale would have been perfectly happy staying like that forever. Crowley would have told him that the feeling was mutual.

Crowley put his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders as he pulled away. "Come on. Don't get soppy on me, angel. We've got a lot of work to do."

***

George woke up at home. His cult uniform was gone.

George tried to remember what had happened the previous day. He had no memory of demons or cults. He decided to work on his next article on tennis and its situation in Wimbledon. Maybe John McEnroe had made an appearance.

More or less, this waking-up-and-not-remembering had occurred to each of the other cult members.

Except the leader. On Earth, he was nowhere to be found.

Their leader was Somewhere Else entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 28 Footnote: Or the DMV, for Americans and other strange lifeforms. [ return to text ]
> 
> 29 Footnote: Crowley was one of the original demons from the Beginning. Colloquially known as the Old Ones.
> 
> The younger demons were not angels that had Fallen later. None had. But rather, the younger demons were all humans who had become demons. They had been hired because, firstly, they had a knack for fulfilling the Underworld's quota. And secondly, Hell had become quite a bit understaffed.
> 
> When this concept of hiring humans to act as demons was first posed, a lot of demons raised an eyebrow, but it slowly became more and more accepted after it was implemented.
> 
> Not all humans in Hell eventually became demons. You needed the proper _grit_ for it. Or so they put it. Being "picked" to become a demon was not unlike being approached by a talent scout. From a human's perspective, the offer to become a demon seemed far more appealing than the alternative.
> 
> Which humans got this offer appeared to be random. Some had been in Hell for years beforehand, while others got an offer right out of the gate (or rather, _right through_ the Gate).
> 
> Once, you've accepted the offer, you'd be supervised by another demon for a century or two. Some of the older demons hated being assigned this role, while others relish teaching humans how it was done. Tempting, torturing, maintenance. Their job description generally didn't include visiting Earth.
> 
> A favourite weekend pastime for the younger demons was skating on the road to Hell, which was perpetually frozen with door-to-door salesmen.
> 
> One could tell the younger demons apart by them having horns. Or tails. And unlike Crowley and the other originals, all the younger demons had bat-like wings. When you've spent a lifetime looking at paintings of what a demon should look like, it leaves an impression.
> 
> Depending on which century they died in, they were much more technologically-savvy than the Old Ones--except for Crowley. The young demons were also generally more human than some of the old demons, using their imaginations to come up with some applauded ideas for renovating Hell.
> 
> Crowley would have even gotten along with some of them, if it wasn’t for their thoroughly-nasty personalities. [ return to text ]
> 
> 30 Footnote: [An audio sample.](https://katy-133.tumblr.com/post/181586096313/ghost-of-fire-and-sea-audiomens-a) [ return to text ]
> 
> 31 Footnote: The only person in the Cult of the Secret Nine who was able to fight well with a weapon was Cultist Susana, who had been taking classes in fencing for several years. However, she was not fighting Aziraphale. She was currently in the kitchen talking to Cultist Jasmine about why she really should have bought those nice trousers at Marks & Spencer. _They had pockets, for heaven's sake._ [ return to text ]
> 
> 32 Footnote: The cultists found some objects in the room to use as weapons.
> 
> "I have a sword!" yelled Cultist Holly.
> 
> "I have a flute, and I'm not afraid to use it!" said Cultist Kalvin. [ return to text ]
> 
> 33 Footnote: While many would have assumed that cultist Tiffany had used some sort of occult relic to break into the Dowling residence, sneak past all the secret servicemen, and kidnap Warlock, undetected, they would be mistaken. While no supernatural objects were used, her achievement _was_ aided by 1) Crowley forgetting to properly lock the door as he left.
> 
> 2) The secret servicemen losing sleep over the recent disappearance of their guns--Wondering whether or not they should tell another serviceman, or not say anything about it--and subsequently the next day becoming a lot more drowsy and unattentive than usual.
> 
> And 3) Cultist Tiffany's promises of ice cream to Warlock, who had not been given proper Stranger Danger advice from either of his godfathers. [ return to text ]


	7. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments! I've now finished the whole fic. I tried to finish it all within a month, but I really wanted to include a final illustration for the last chapter. And wow, the word count! [I've written video games](https://katy133.itch.io) with less text than this fic.

_(July 1st. Evening.)_

Crowley leaned back in Aziraphale's sofa.

Crowley was back in his previous body. It had be on the ground unattended for a while, but it wasn't like dropping a sweet. You could still use it so long as it was all in one piece. Taking some inspiration from one of the other corporations of himself he had seen at the warehouse, he had decided to change his hair. It was now shorter and wisped up at the front.

He was able to get it swapped out fairly easily, all things considered. Which was fortunate, as he'd need the body to easily shapeshift into Nanny Ashtoreth.

He was able to switch bodies back without Hell noticing. Everybody was too preoccupied with a burst pipe in the Contracts Department.

Hell would have been mad at Crowley for breaking the deal, but they got Moon's soul anyway. And there were no living _human_ witnesses with _memories_ of the event, so Hell's reputation wasn't "tarnished."

Sending Moon to the vacuum of space would have been kinder.

Crowley and Aziraphale were cuddling on the sofa in the backroom of the bookshop. They were both beneath a tartan blanket, watching a James Bond film.

Aziraphale had pulled out his old telly from the recesses of the back room of his bookshop. He let Crowley pick the film.

Since their hug just after midnight, neither of them had much wantingness to pull apart and go back to the thin invisible barrier that had been between them. They were both more than willing to sit close and relax near each other after their recent adventure.

In the soft glow of the flickering screen, Saida--played by actress Carmen du Sautoy--was looking all along the floor of her dressing room for her missing piece of jewellery.

_"I've lost my charm!"_

Roger Moore's Bond adjusted his collar. _"Not from where I'm standing."_

"I _am_ sorry though," said Aziraphale, "about not using the phurba like you told me to. I'm sorry that I made things harder for you."

Crowley scooped up Aziraphale's arm and entwined their fingers together. "Don't be. It all worked out in the end."

"Yes," said Aziraphale quietly. He sounded thankful. "I'm glad things are oojah-cum-spiff."

Crowley's smile quirked up a little bit higher at the angel's words. _Aziraphale had really enjoyed the 1930s, hadn't he?_ thought the demon.

Crowley had taken his sunglasses off, as he usually did when he was in the bookshop, and looked at Aziraphale with golden eyes. The gentle gaze made Aziraphale's heart melt.

Crowley leaned his head against Aziraphale's. From the new angle, the demon noticed something on the side table.

Crowley cocked an eyebrow. "You _kept_ the book?"

Aziraphale stiffened. "What book?" he said innocently.

" _Angel_."

"Well, it wasn't going be doing anything in _that_ place," he shrugged. With his free hand, he reached over and carded his fingers through Crowley's feathery hair. "And besides, that colour plate illustration of you... Be a shame if that book got lost."[34]

"Sentimental..." smiled Crowley.

"We don't want it to fall into the wrong hands," Aziraphale replied defensively.

"Yeah..."

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand. The angel softly smiled and Crowley felt like floating up to the stars and creating a new nebula in Aziraphale's name.

Aziraphale glanced down in thought. He spoke quietly. "We ought to... We should..."

There was a hesitation. There was a gap that grew longer and longer until the end of the sentence disappeared altogether. But then Crowley thought, _Oh, what the hell. Cards on the table. Put all on red._

"We should go for a picnic tomorrow. Just the two of us." said Crowley, bridging the gap.

Aziraphale looked up. He wanted to say yes. He _really_ wanted to say yes. "But we have _obligations_ tomorrow. Warlock."

"We could have a picnic with him."

"The gardener having a picnic with Warlock and the nanny seems unlikely. Since they're not supposed to even know each other. Would seem far from that narrative if they did something like that."

Crowley sagged. "Oh... right... Other people..." He pulled his hand away, resting it on the sofa cushion.

He would not push Aziraphale on this. Tempting the angel to try new cuisine was one thing, but he would not go faster than Aziraphale wanted him to.

Crowley simply nodded, his eyes glued to the screen. "Right," he said again.

Aziraphale's brow furrowed as he watched the television. He was expecting Crowley to keep talking, but he didn't. There was no tempting forthcoming. Disappointment spread through him.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley's profile. _I love you,_ he thought. It dawned on him that Crowley was not going to press the matter himself. Not after what Aziraphale had said all those years ago. _You go too fast for me, Crowley._

If things were going to progress, if things were going to change, Aziraphale was going to need to do something. This wasn't something he was used to _actively_ doing.[35]

Aziraphale took in a small breath and spoke carefully. "Maybe other people had gotten it wrong," he ventured. He placed a hand over Crowley's. "Maybe the gardener and the nanny are secretly in love."

Crowley's eyes softened. He brought his other hand up to caress Aziraphale's.

"Yeah... I think they... I think they definitely are."

They leaned in closer together.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 34 Footnote: Aziraphale and Crowley had divided up the items. Crowley sent the "dangerous to the infernal" items to a warehouse in Hell. Aziraphale moved the "dangerous to the celestial" items to the storeroom in Heaven. The "total rubbish" items were left alone.
> 
> Except for a gold ring made in the shape of a snake, which Aziraphale added to his ring collection. _Not for sentimental purposes, of course. It just looked rather nice._ [ ▲ ]
> 
> Which was a remarkable, ineffable coincidence, because Crowley had done the same thing, only with a silver ring shaped into a pair of unfurled angel wings. He kept it around his neck as a new addition to his chain necklace. _Silver fit in with his aesthetic, after all._ [ return to text ]
> 
> 35 Footnote: _Actively_ doing, mind you. _Accidentally,_ Aziraphale had tempted Crowley into the following things:
>
>> Trying oysters. (41 A.D.)
>> 
>> Going to watch the Olympics (776 A.D. Both Crowley and Aziraphale enjoyed the free calf thighs that were handed out to the crowd).
>> 
>> Trying sushi (sometime during the Yayoi period).
>> 
>> Travelling all the way to France to listen to a minstrel sing _The Song of Roland_ (1115. Crowley wasn't quite sure what all the fuss was about, until he discovered just how many lines long the epic was).
>> 
>> Helping to model for a sculpture of two robed angels (circa fifteenth century. Aziraphale had to convince Crowley to visit Verrocchio's workshop to meet the up-and-coming artist, but once they spoke, Crowley and Leonardo had gotten on like two people who had been telling the same jokes without even realising it. Nothing became of the sculpture past its concept sketches, as the artist had moved on to painting.)
>> 
>> Trying champagne (1693, Aziraphale happened to have been working in the Abbey that had inadvertently invented it. The monk was right, it _was_ like drinking the stars).
>> 
>> Going to see the opening performance of _Much Ado About Nothing_. (1612. Aziraphale remembered Crowley saying that he "preferred the funny ones.")
>> 
>> Trying crepes (sometime during the eighteenth century).
>> 
>> Riding a horse-drawn coach for the first time. (1837. _"You'll like it, my dear. It's not at all like riding a horse."_ )
>> 
>> Trying devil's food cake (1945).
>> 
>> Buying an Amstrad PCW computer (1985. Aziraphale had already bought one himself, to help fill out his taxes, and wanted Crowley to join in on the discovery).
>> 
>> Installing Microsoft Excel (1990, after Aziraphale was shocked to discover that Crowley hadn't been using it for three years).
>> 
>> Attempting to read the entirety of _Infinite Jest_ (1996).
> 
> This list was far from exhaustive. [ return to text ]

**Author's Note:**

> My _Good Omens_ illustrations can be found in [this folder](https://www.deviantart.com/katy133/gallery/68717203/good-omens-fanart) on DeviantART.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fic. Let me know in the comments. Turrah.


End file.
